


That's Not Him

by SassyEggs



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-ish, F/M, Gates of the Moon, birthday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 14:10:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15865185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SassyEggs/pseuds/SassyEggs
Summary: She never truly expected him to rescue her, never allowed herself to hope for it.So why should she be disappointed that he didn’t come?(Extremely) Belated Birthday Gift for the talented Inert_PenMaid





	That's Not Him

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inert_PenMaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inert_PenMaid/gifts).



> Happy (belated) Birthday Inert Penmaid! Hope you had a FABULOUS day! I really wanted to get this done in time but obviously failed miserably. 
> 
> And many many thanks to The Immaculate Bastard who previewed this when it was still a very rough draft and let me know I was on the right track. Couldn't have done it without you, I appreciate it more than I can say!

One brown woolen dress.  One heavy winter shift. Two sets of small clothes, all of her stockings, and one spare pair of boots.  Their journey would be a difficult one, she knew that, and even as she packed her meager belongings she told herself she would be strong.  There would be no complaining, not from her. Not to him.

_I’m a Stark, and I can be brave._

Sansa had been utterly lost in the Vale... or so she thought.  She’d fully taken on the mantle of a baseborn girl, denied the truth for so long it hardly seemed real anymore.  And even though father swore she wouldn’t be Alayne forever, she’d started to wonder if perhaps he was mistaken. What if, when the time came, Sansa was nowhere to be found?  What if Sansa had simply crumbled and blown away, forever?

That worrying had been for nothing, though, because her previous life came back to her with perfect clarity the moment she spotted the Hound, lurking in the snowy courtyard and dressed as a man of the faith.  His hood was up, and a cowl covered his face, still she knew- she _knew_.  But _Sansa_ was the one who knew the Hound, not Alayne, and it was Sansa’s belly that jumped, Sansa’s eyes that widened, Sansa’s pulse that sang _he’s here he’s here he’s here_ with every beat of Sansa’s heart.  

And it was Sansa’s imagination that told her that this was _exactly_ how it would happen in the songs-- a man pledged to protect her, returned at last to steal her away, to take her to safety.  Take her home.

He’d _promised_ , after all.  Why else would he be there?

Sansa fastened a cloak around her shoulders and gave her reflection a rare, hopeful smile. She never truly expected him to rescue her, never allowed herself to hope for it.  And yet, there he was. Or… there he _would_ be, just as soon as he arrived in her chambers.  Whenever that might be. Honestly, she thought he would have been there already though she supposed preparation took a long time, longer than she could possibly know. Perhaps she could speed up the escape if she went to him instead.

It would surprise him… no, it would _please_ him if she sought him out instead of waiting for him to retrieve her. It would prove that she was no longer the meek little girl she used to be, and he would know that she meant it when she said yes, she would go with him.  

So long after the Gates of the Moon settled into silence, Sansa grabbed her freshly-packed bag and set out to find him. Instinct told her he would be in the kitchen; they would need provisions, after all, and he would no doubt want to prepare for such a treacherous journey.  

In the end, her hunch had been only somewhat correct-- he was in the kitchen, yes, but sitting at a table, legs splayed wide and hand clutching a wineskin and clearly not planning for any sort of journey, treacherous or otherwise.  It didn’t matter- it felt _good_ to see him there, so good she wanted to laugh.

“Have you been looking for me, _ser?”_

It had sounded ever so clever when she practiced it in her room-- a conspiracy of sorts, a secret that only the two of them shared.  But instead of the raised brow and flicker of surprise she expected, those grey eyes held no recognition whatsoever. Which he confirmed with a terse--  

“No.”

“Are you certain?” she asked, moving to stand in front of him, daring him to remember; his blank, bored stare never wavered.

And then he went back to his wine as if no one had spoken to him at all, effectively dismissing her.  Worse was that he had looked right through her, as if she was nothing more than a kitchen maid and not worth a second glance, and for the first time Sansa’s resolve faltered.

Was he lying?  No, because the Hound would never lie, he’d told her so. And besides, he had no reason to lie, did he?  Which meant… he didn’t remember her. He wasn’t there for her, there would be no rescue, and Sansa Stark really _was_ lost.  Foolish, trusting, _stupid_ Sansa.  

“Apologies, you just… reminded me of a man I knew.  Once.”       

The words were mumbled, churlish... and largely ignored. She watched this man who never cared about her take another bored drink of wine, entirely indifferent to her presence.  What would he do, she wondered, if she took that skin away from him, shared his wine like the common tavern wench he obviously assumed she was.

She couldn’t, could she?  Sansa would _never._  

But _Alayne_ would, and Alayne did, plucked the skin straight from his hands and finally earned the surprised look she’d been seeking.  

“It’s for the best, I suppose,” she said breezily, and took a sip that was not quite as big as she pretended it to be.  “That man was ill-tempered and cruel and... a bit craven, if I’m being honest. I can’t imagine why I thought he would come here.”

She took another pull of wine, bigger this time, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.  

“You do remind me of him, though, small as you are.  Though you’re not as rude as he was.”

“No gallant knight, then?” he rasped.  

“Never.  A drunkard.  And hateful, always.”  

His burned cheek _twitched._ “Sounds like a knight to me.”   

 _Yes,_ she thought spitefully, but took a sip before she could say it.  

“I don’t know why I thought you might be him, you’re far too old,” she said instead.  “I suppose the dark… the fire… they were playing a trick on me.”

He paused… then reached for the wine.  Rough fingers lingered over hers longer than necessary when he took the skin, warm and strong as the drink itself.  

“Must be tricking me too," he grumbled after a quick sip.  "Since you remind me of an irritating little girl I once knew.”

Her stomach dropped.  The way he was looking at her, so much like how he used to, made it clear who he was talking about, clear that he knew who he was talking _to._ She didn’t know if she should be pleased he remembered her... or angry he lied about it.  Both, she decided.

“Irritating because she was so kind and courteous?”

“Because she was naive and foolish.”

“She sounds delightful.”

“You wouldn’t like her.”

“No, I don't suppose I would,” she admitted, surprising herself.  She couldn’t meet his eyes when he handed her the wine, only took the skin and a long, unladylike gulp before handing it back.  “What was she to you?”

Another pause.  Sansa watched him lift the skin to his mouth, put his lips where hers had just been, saw the bulge of his neck jump when he swallowed.

“Nothing at all,” he answered at last.  “Though you do make a man wonder whatever happened to that irritating girl.”

“She likely met some sad fate after you abandoned her.  I imagine that would please you greatly.”

“I never said I abandoned her.”

“True.  You just seem the sort to leave people when they most need you.”

“Is that how your weak and craven knight was?”

“He wasn’t a knight,” she corrected, though it hardly mattered.  “And yes, that’s precisely how he was.”

Sansa’s head was buzzing by then but she didn’t think she imagined that faint curl of his lip, or the way his eyes burned with amusement.

“What was he to you?”

“Nothing at all,” she said, echoing his response and hoping to cut him as much as his words had cut her.  “I don’t even know what happened to him. I imagine he’s sneaking into kitchens and stealing wine and not thinking at all of the pain he caused.  Or of me.”

Oh… she shouldn’t have said that-- she hadn’t _meant_ to say that.  But the wine was blurring the line between reticent Sansa and bold Alayne.  And she was so angry... and her heart _hurt_ … and she had thought… but she was wrong.  Wasn’t she?

“Might be he does,” he countered slowly, measuring every word.  “Might be… he thinks it best he keep away.”

“Why would he think that?”

The wineskin was noticeably empty by then but he brought it to his mouth anyway, seemingly lost in thought.  Or seeking to avoid the question.

“The things he did… I’m sure he thinks…  he could have done them different.”

 _“Do_ you?” she asked before she could stop herself.   “I mean... do _you_?  Think you could have done things different with your little bird?”

Gods, but she hadn’t meant to say that, either, the name slipped out as natural and familiar as an old friend.  And even though she was pleased she could make him _flinch_ like that when she said it, all she could think was that it would have been better if he’d said it first.

Or at all.

Glancing up at him, though, he seemed to be struggling hard for something to say; when he finally answered his confused, almost-pained tone tempered her shame.

“Probably shouldn’t have spoken to her the way I did.”

Sansa covered a smile.  There was a time she would have agreed with him.  But at that moment she couldn’t help but recall the many times they’d spoken to each other just like this, just the two of them under the cover of darkness.  

“I would guess she looks back on your conversations fondly.”

“Why would you guess that?” he rasped, soft as a sigh.  It didn’t need to be any louder than that seeing as how she was standing right next to him, eye to eye, blue to grey and close enough to hear; close enough for more.  

“I suppose they aren’t so terribly frightening now.  To her.”

 _“Were_ they frightening?”

Her tongue was growing thick and loose and the gods only knew what she might say next.  Part of her was horrified at the prospect but the other part-- the part that had sipped a little too freely at the wine-- needed to speak, needed him to understand.

“Sometimes.  Not always.” She shook her head. “Not anymore.”

“I seem to remember that girl was more than happy to see me leave.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“You’re lying,” he accused her, almost affectionately.

“I’m not.”  And she meant it.  But then she remembered the glint of his dagger in the moonlight.  The weight of him when he pinned her down in bed. “Though I suppose I would wish some of it away.”

“Me as well.”

“Which parts?”

She could forgive him if he were sorry. If he regretted it. He didn't even have to say it, she would still understand... _if_ he wished away the worst parts-- the part where he scared her, the part where he threatened her, the part where he _left_ her. The part where she let him go.

He didn’t say any of that though.

“All of it,” he said instead, as if the answer should be obvious. “Never should have gone to see her, should have just left.”

Sansa blinked, confused.  How could that be? She’d clung feebly to the memory of him-- his protection, his ferocity, his promise, his kiss-- and he’d wish it all away, take it _all_ away? 

_I could keep you safe_

“No,” she shook her head, her thoughts spinning.

_No one would hurt you again_

“No,” she said again, and wanted to hit him, wanted to wound him.

_He took a song and a kiss_

“No!”

He caught her hand before she make contact, held her gently by the wrist like he didn’t want to hurt her.  It was too late for that, though; he’d already hurt her-- _badly._

“I kept your cloak.  I kept your confidence.  I prayed for you, I did. And you’d wish it all away?  You can’t. You can't. You _can’t.”_

This was not how she thought her rescue would go when she first set out to find him; when her thoughts were clear and her head held high, a proper and confident lady.  When her pride was intact and she was brave and ready to leave, ready to accept the long journey, knowing it wouldn’t end until they reached Winterfell.

Where had her journey ended instead?  Right there in the kitchen, with her curled up in the Hound’s lap, weeping against his neck while he patted her back and whispered into her hair _‘shhhhh, little bird, you’re all right now. You’re all right.’_  She couldn’t recall how she’d gotten there, and couldn’t make herself care.  

“I’m glad you’re not him,” she pouted, still stung by his confession.  

His response to that was little more than an amused huffed, followed by a deep, dark chuckle that soothed the ache in her heart just as much as the strong arms around her did.  

“You’re ready to go, then?”

“Go?”

“You’ve got a bag with you.  You’re dressed. Were you planning on leaving?”

“I _was_ , but…”

“Good,” he said, standing and pushing her from his lap.  “So you’re ready.”

The man who looked down at her then was the same fierce man she remembered, all traces of softness gone though Sansa wasn’t fooled-- she knew the man who hid beneath that hard skin.  And she would find that man again just as he had found her, hidden in the Vale, not quite as lost as she seemed.

“Yes,” she laughed, giddy as the girl she used to be.  “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> Not a fan of the title. If anyone has any suggestions I'd love to hear them :-)


End file.
